


I could write a book

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Things, Community: spn_flashfic, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-03
Updated: 2009-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:51:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>"What don't I know about that kid?"</cite> Five things Dean knows about Sam. (Companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/23098"><strong>Quinquae Viae</strong></a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I could write a book

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to angelgazing for brainstorming and handholding. Title from Rodgers &amp; Hart. Written for the [**spnflashfic**](http://community.livejournal.com/spnflashfic/) five things challenge.

**one**

Before Mom died, Sam was a happy baby. Dean remembers him laughing and cooing and doing whatever it is that babies do--sleep, eat, and shit, basically--with a big, toothless smile on his pudgy face.

After the fire, he turned cranky, colicky, clingy. He wanted to be carried everywhere, and refused to let other people hold him. It was like he knew, even then. The only way he could sleep was when Dean climbed into his crib with him, which was okay with Dean, because it was the only way he could sleep for a long time, too.

They slept in the same bed until Dean hit puberty; then it was years of rollaway cots and pull-out couches when Dad was around, and separate beds when he wasn't.

Dad wasn't around a lot. And it always made Sam nervous. Hell, it made Dean nervous, too, but he was better at hiding it. Sam would toss and turn, rustling sound of his sheets rubbing Dean's nerves the wrong way. But Dean couldn't just crawl into bed next to his prickly and independent little brother--he'd have never heard the end of it, even if secretly he needed the comfort, too. Dean's a clever guy, though, despite what some people think, and it didn't take him long to come up with a solution, one he still implements now, fifteen years and untold horrors later.

Sam is tossing and turning and mumbling under his breath, so Dean pounces and has him in a headlock before he's fully conscious of what's going on.

They wrestle for a few minutes, and Dean never stops being surprised at how much bigger and stronger Sam is, even now, even though they spend what feels like every hour of every day together. He still remembers holding Sam in his arms, the smell of baby powder and formula clinging to his fine hair and soft skin.

In the seconds he's distracted, Sam flips them over and pins him, laughing.

"Winner and still champion!" Sam crows.

Dean snorts and bucks him off, and they lay there side by side, laughing, until Sam's breathing evens out and he's really, truly asleep. Dean thinks about moving to the other bed, but he's warm and comfortable, so he just shifts until they're both under the covers, and falls asleep with the sound of Sam breathing in his ear.

*

**two**

Dean hasn't been sleeping much since he got back from hell. Too many nightmares, too many memories of things he wishes he could forget. He stays awake as long as he can, and tries to shut his brain off with Jack, Jim, and Jose. Which means in the morning, he needs his coffee hot enough to scald his tongue and strong enough to make it grow hair.

He started drinking coffee when he was twelve. He wonders, sometimes, if those extra four inches Sam's got on him are the result of too much caffeine and his brief flirtation with smoking when he was fourteen. He drinks it black because Dad drank it black; milk and sugar were for pussies. He's actually learned to like it that way, but it took a lot longer than he'll ever admit.

Sam didn't start drinking coffee until he was thirteen, and since that first, horrified sip, he's been a milk and sugar kind of guy.

Sam's always had some obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and he always makes his coffee in the exact same way, his own personal ritual. Dean's been watching him for years, and his own hands move in the same way, follow the same ritual, when he makes Sam's coffee--two sugars in the bottom of the cup, then two-thirds coffee, one-third milk.

After Jess died, after the years of separation, Dean found himself making Sam's coffee again, grateful that this one detail hadn't changed when so much else had.

This morning, he hands Sam the cup and grins when Sam mumbles, "Thanks, man," and blinks the sleep out of his eyes.

Dean drinks his own coffee, which tastes like tar, and tries not to think of what's changed this time around.

*

**three**

Dean taught Sam everything he knows about playing cards and hustling pool. The kid's a natural liar, always has been, and he gets away with shit Dean wouldn't even try to pull, using those big puppy dog eyes and that earnest expression that always made teachers and librarians love him.

But the one thing Sam doesn't realize is that Dean knows his tells, has been able to see through him since that first, "It wasn't me!" when he was five.

When he's got a good hand, he looks down and to the right and bites his lip to keep himself from smiling. He probably thinks it makes him look nervous or something. When he's got a bad hand, he stares at his cards like he can set them on fire with his brain (and lately, that doesn't seem like such a far-fetched possibility, which on the one hand, would be really cool, and on the other, makes Dean really freaking nervous), and doesn't look up until Dean reminds him it's time to ante up.

Dean's got his own tells--the ones he knows about and uses to make Sam think he's winning (and which help them hustle cards when they play other people), and probably a couple he doesn't realize he has, because Sam's gotten better at reading him over the years.

So it's Dean's own fault that he believes the line of bullshit Sam fed him, about not using his powers. He should have known better, should have paid closer attention to the way Sam looked away.

He's paying attention now, though, and what he's seeing makes his gut clench in fear and concern. Sam smiles like nothing is wrong, and it breaks Dean's heart.

*

**four**

Sam is moody, high-strung. Has been since he was a baby. After years of sullen brush-offs and nasty comebacks, Dean has learned when to push and when to leave him alone. He's learned to read the nuances of Sam's tone and body language, and even with the distance between them now, he knows by the angle of Sam's chin, the set of his shoulders, whether he's welcome or not.

Sometimes, though, he doesn't need to read the signs, like when Sam climbs into the shower with him and pushes him back against the tiled wall and starts kissing him. It's cleaner than most motel showers, and bigger, too, almost enough room for the two of them, and for once, Sam doesn't block the water with his stupidly broad shoulders and giant head. Sam bites Dean's jaw and thrusts his hips, and Dean stop caring about the tile and the hot water, lost in the sensation of Sam's hand on his dick, Sam's tongue in his mouth.

Dean knows a lot of things he shouldn't about Sam, like the way he looks and sounds when he comes, the soft hitch in his breathing, the way his thighs tense and his hips jerk when he's getting close. Dean knows the taste and smell of his skin, breathes the same air and bleeds the same blood.

Sometimes, he worries he's damned Sam's soul to hell as surely as his own; sometimes, he wonders if there was ever a difference.

*

**five**

Dean's not used to his new, unmarked skin. He misses his scars, the marks on his body a roadmap of where he's been. He doesn't know who he is without them.

Now he looks for himself in the marks on Sam's skin, the constellation of moles on his collarbone, the one on his neck a north star leading Dean home. He finds himself, his history, on the knees he bandaged, the reminders of the wounds he sewed up, the injuries he couldn't prevent--the small, round bullet wound on Sam's shoulder, the long thin scar on his back, the one on his throat that makes Dean sick when he looks at it, knowing it was his hand holding the knife.

He pauses in his inventory when he finds a mark he doesn't recognize. Sometimes, Sam will laugh and tell him the story of how it happened--the sharp edges of Jess's old metal desk, or the drunk frat boy who didn't like being hustled at pool. Sometimes, though, Sam's face shuts down and he pulls away, or distracts Dean with his hands and lips.

This scar is about four inches long, thin and silvery-pink on the inside of Sam's right biceps. It wasn't there the last time Dean checked, and it shouldn't have healed this quickly. He swallows the question, though, lets himself be distracted by the soft, wet heat of Sam's mouth, and doesn't think about all the things he doesn't know about Sam.

end

~*~


End file.
